Courtney got her first strike within an hour. And she wasn’t even trying, just standing on the corner, idly gazing at pictures in the window of a yacht brokerage.
“What?” She hadn’t even seen him approach, but hot damn. His suit alone cost more than her car. Gold Rolex, heartthrob foreign accent and a long sexy mane like in those photos that they show you when you go to get a haircut but it never works out that way. Courtney gulped. “Why? Do you have a boat?”
She gulped again and offered her hand. “My name’s Courtney.”
He leaned and kissed it. “I’m Gustave.”
She got the jelly legs, but recovered before toppling over.
“Is Courtney all right?”
She nodded with embarrassment. “Just a little hungry.”
“Zat is wonderful.” He placed his palms together in front of his chin like he was praying. “I know zis great little spot. Everyone is talking about their new menu.”
And that’s how they came to be sitting across from each other under an umbrella, plowing through mimosas in goldfish bowls. Courtney was still acclimating to Palm Beach. She looked up curiously at the royal-blue awning over the café’s facade, and the name, which was simply “.”.
Gustave saw the question in her look and smiled. “Ah, yes. Zee name of zee restaurant. Very hip, very now.”
“It’s just a period. How do you pronounce it?”
“You get ready to start a sentence. And then zee sentence is over.”
“You don’t say anything?” asked Courtney.
“And yet it says
Moments later, their meals arrived. Gustave placed a napkin in his lap. “What do you think?”
Courtney tilted her head at a small, vertical sprig of seared blowfish from the Azores. “They let us try a sample first?”
“No, zat is the meal.”
“Seriously?”
“Zee best on zee island.”
Courtney smiled with semi-acceptance and picked up a fork. “I’d love to see their appetizers.”
“Oh, you absolutely must try zee shrimp cocktail. It is zee best. Tiger shrimp.” Gustave turned and snapped his fingers.
Soon, a waiter placed an appetizer in front of Courtney. “What’s this?”
“Your shrimp cocktail.”
“It’s a microscope,” said Courtney.
“Shrimp molecules.”
She sat back in puzzlement. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Gustave laughed heartily. “Yes, a joke. It is what you call . . . a gimmick. All fine restaurants must now have a delightful sense of whimsy. Not take themselves too seriously. Life is but a dream.” He waved a hand dismissively toward the waiter, who briskly removed the scientific instrument.
“So he’s bringing my shrimp cocktail now?”
Gustave shook his head. “There is no shrimp cocktail.”
“Oh, I’m starting to get it now. When you order a shrimp cocktail, they
“Very chic.”
Courtney raised her eyebrows and grinned.
“And Gustave will show you.” He picked up his fork for the first time and finished his meal. “Would you like to take a drive with me?”
Courtney finished her own meal. “You have a car nearby?”
Gustave glanced at the opposite curb.
She choked. “A Bentley.”
“We will drive south along the shore, like zee Côte d’Azur.”
“Uh, okay.”
A cell phone rang. Gustave checked the number and stood. “Pardon me while I take zis. It is Brussels.” He went inside the café to escape traffic noise.
Courtney picked up the most recent mimosa in both hands and gulped.
The bubbles started getting to her. The waiter strolled up with aplomb. “Would madam like another?”
She nodded with a crooked smile and handed him the empty glass orb.
Her next drink was half gone when she strained to peer inside the dark restaurant.
The waiter approached. “May I help you with something?”
She craned her neck to look past him into the narrow diner. “Have you seen Gustave?”
“You mean the gentleman you were dining with?”
She nodded and glanced around.
“Not since he was sitting with you out there,” said the waiter. “He isn’t inside the restaurant.”
“What?” said Courtney. “But I saw him come in here to take a call. And there’s no way he could have come out without me seeing him.”
The bartender overheard. “If you’re talking about the French guy with the cell phone, I saw him go in the restroom.”
“How long ago?”
“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”
Now the maître d’ overheard. He turned to the waiter. “Jerry, go check.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Courtney. The maître d’ smiled warmly, but she misread his intentions.
Jerry returned, shaking his head. “Empty.”
“But that’s not possible,” said Courtney.
The bartender wiped a glass. “There’s a back exit.”
“But he couldn’t have left,” said Courtney. “His car is still out front.”
“Which one?” asked the bartender.
“The Bentley.”
“That’s not his,” said the bartender.
“How do you know?”
